The Punisher: A Father's Love
by Darrell DeWeese
Summary: When Frank Castle meets a cop who wants vengeance for his daughter's murder, he uncovers more than he bargains for.
1. Chapter 1

The pavement in front of him was painted in blood.

Frank Castle rolled over and felt the heat from the burning car not more than fifty feet away. He spat out blood. The bodies that littered the alleyway were members of Bobby "The Salami" Salerno's crew. "The Salami." What is it with these goombahs and their nicknames?

Frank could hear the sirens in the distance: New York's finest. He knew he should have waited until he was farther away before targeting the Caddy, but it was such a great shot. Three of Salerno's boys were in the front seat, three in the back. The rocket launcher in his arms was screaming to be used.

Frank got up slowly. The pain was great, but he had felt worse. He looked at the RPG on the ground and decided to leave it. It would be hard enough getting out of the area without that extra weight. He staggered down the alley, leaving a stream of blood in his wake..

This was just a typical Saturday night.

The morning was harsh. Frank woke up sweating and in pain. The makeshift bandage he had applied before he passed out had failed, and he was soaked in blood. He examined his wound. A piece of shrapnel had lodged in his forearm, and he knew it was bad. The antibiotics he liberated from a mob doctor would help, but it was going to be touch and go.

He sat up, and fought through the haze. The bathroom was only a few feet away. He could make it. He steeled himself. He thought of his family, dead and gone, blood-covered and shrieking and he stood up and strolled into the bathroom.

A shower and a shave. He felt better. He cleaned his arm and bandaged it again, this time taking care. He was still a little woozy, but he knew that was from the blood-loss. He had felt better, but he had felt worse.

Morning paper at his front door told the tale. Mob hit in Chinatown. Frank read the story as he waited for his bagel to toast, sipping his coffee, black, of course.

The knock on his door surprised him. He had no friends, and the front desk had more than enough sense not to bother him.

Couldn't be mob; they would have just busted in and started shooting. Frank grabbed his .357 and walked carefully to the door. The peephole was dirty and grimy; all he could make out was a shape.

He swung the door open, keeping the gun by his side, out of sight. A average looking man stood at the door. Frank knew he was a cop. He didn't dress like a cop; he was wearing jeans and a pull-over wool sweater. But his eyes were like beacons. The cop knew it. He pulled his badge out of his pocket.

"Yeah, I am police. Detective Jim Bolton, 4th street. And you can put the gun away. I know you won't shoot me, and it is just plain rude to leave me out here in the hall."

Frank poked his head into the hallway and looked up and down.

The cop laughed. "Oh, yeah. There's a swat team downstairs. Come on, if this was a sting, don't you think you would be knee-deep in a tactical unit by now?"

Frank grabbed the cop by his wool sweater and pulled him in. He pointed at the ratty chair near the bed. "Have a seat."

Bolton sat and crossed his legs. He nodded at the paper on the table. "Nice work, by the way. We have been trying to nail Salerno for a couple of years now. You just saved us a lot of headache."

Frank sat down and sipped his coffee. "Someone else will take his place."

"And I'm sure you will take care of him. Look, to be honest, a lot of the cops like you. You make our jobs easier. You get to do things we wish we could."

"What about you?"

Bolton looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. "Honestly? Up until last week I thought you were the worst society had to offer. Everyone knows what happened to your family, and why you do what you do. It's tragic, and I feel for you, but I always thought you basically became what you hunt. A murderer."

Frank sipped his coffee. "You're not telling anything I haven't heard a thousand times before."

Bolton stared him straight in the eyes; a real steel gaze. Frank was mildly impressed. "I want you to kill the son of a bitch who raped and murdered my daughter."


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a few hours since Bolton left, and Frank was poring over the information that had been laid in his lap. A Russian hitter, who had a penchant for hurting women. The only question was why would a cop's daughter be hanging with trash like that?

Bolton didn't have an answer. He just looked at Frank with eyes that were haunted and angry. Eyes that looked all too familiar. Frank should have told him no. Except that the Russian was already on his list of people to kill.

The moment Bolton left, Frank was on the phone with his contacts. Every one of them said the same; Bolton was legit, a real hero cop, role model, and a point of pride to the NYPD. And now he wanted Frank to kill someone.

Not hard to figure the whys; rage will make you act in crazy ways. Rage will make you forsake anything and everything, to inflict pain on others because you are incapable of feeling anything anymore. Every time the guns barks and bucks in your hand, you know you made your world a little easier to live in. Frank knew. He killed the monsters because it was all they left him. He was a warrior, but when the war is over, the soldier leaves it behind and settles into his life with his family. But there was no white picket fence. Only a brief respite before his new war, the war that could never end, until he was stone-cold on a coroner's slab.

Frank flexed his arm. It was stiff, but manageable. He walked over to his bed and pulled out the footlocker underneath. His files were inside. Piles of paper, pilfered from police stations, FBI listening posts, and blood and knuckles, until some scumbag talked. The Russian was in the middle of the stack; Frank may have made a misjudgment on how soon he needed to be dealt with.

Piotr Rasmanavich; a cold-war soldier in the former Soviet Union. Former Spetnatz; the Soviet version of the Green Berets, if the Green Berets believed in killing women and children, and wearing their bones as jewelry. Tough son of a bitch; joined the Russian Mob in 1997 and moved up in the ranks fast and hard. Rumor had it the bosses were scared to death of him, mainly because of his unpredictable behavior. In 1998, he skinned a rumored informant alive, and reportedly made soap from his flesh.

Frank checked his list of contacts in the Russian Mob. They were slim; several names were crossed out. Sometimes his rage got the best of him. But it was hard not to break some bastard's neck when it was just there, right in front of him with a bow on top. He had a few names; they would have to do.

He walked over to the closet and pulled out his uniform. The jacket, pants, boots, and his armor. Then the top. The skull was always grinning, and Frank always felt a sense of comfort when he pulled it on. It was a good feeling, watching the eyes of some mook in the dark, when he walks out and the skull is there, grinning his smile of death.

He got dressed, and grabbed his guns. Now he felt complete. He walked out the door, intent on blood and mayhem, the only things he had left.


	3. Chapter 3

He hit the streets.

He visited old contacts and made new ones, all with the threat and at times the actual act of physical violence. The ones who were smart, talked. The rest were in the local morgue.

Half the night was gone. It led him to a building owned by a corporation called Hammer. Frank scoped out the site from the building across the street. Armed goons in front and back. Hard to tell how many inside. Would the Russian be inside? There was no time to decide.

Frank pulled the grenade launcher out and discharged the teargas shells at the building. The rats scurried out, coughing and gagging, guns cocked and ready to go.

Frank had the M-60 ready. His teeth rattled as the gun sang its tune. The smoke and noise created an aura of chaos, and Frank briefly flashed back to that time in 'Nam, in the jungle, when blood and cordite was heavy in the air.

Frank dropped the M-60 and ran towards the building. He had his gas mask, and he had his Uzi for any stragglers that survived the first onslaught. The building was a mess; it was riddled with bullet holes, and not of all of them fresh. One mook was screaming, a blood geyser where his arm used to be. Frank put one in his head, and continued into the building.

It was dark. The smell was awful; musky and damp, hazy from the teargas. The building was gutted on the first floor, just one large space with blood-caked mattresses on the floor and two or three cameras set up.

Frank knew what the place was. The blood on the floor, the smell; a snuff film operation. He walked across carefully. He had no idea who was left, and he felt exposed out in the open. He slid his night goggles over his eyes. The place looked clean. He looked up the staircase, and saw movement.

He moved carefully. The stairs were old and creaked. He heard the sound of guns being cocked; he jumped and hit the floor. The room exploded with gunfire. He scrambled, splinters flying up around him, and found a safe zone under the staircase.

He heard a voice.

"I know you. You are famous, and so am I. You are ruthless, and so am I. How do you think this will end?" A thick, yet refined Russian accent. Frank shook his head. Why do people have to talk in a firefight?

Frank slung his Uzi aside and grabbed the grenade launcher. No teargas for this bastard. He waited until the bullets slowed; reload time.

He jumped out from his position. He aimed the grenade launcher up, and two volleys arced over the staircase railing. The explosion was loud; he hit the floor, rolled, reloaded and fired again, this time higher.

He didn't hear any screams. Just the explosions and an awful creaking noise. He looked up and saw the first floor come tumbling down. He ran and grabbed a mattress. He covered himself as the floor landed on him, dust and roaches and rats flying through the air.

He waited until the dust settled and the creaking stopped. He was bruised, but in one piece. He pushed hard and the section of floor that had landed on him slid off.

Frank stood up and brushed himself off. He looked around; the first floor was now in the lobby, with body parts and moaning punks in the blood and debris. He pulled out his nine; he through the mess, past the dying and found the one he wanted.

Igor.

He was lying on his back, his legs obviously broken. He smiled through a beard caked with blood. He looked liked a mad Cossack, eyes wild with pain and rage. He talked, this dead man. "You are insane to do this. Do you know who I am?"

Frank bent down and got close. The smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne hit him in the face. "You know who I am. You know this is what I do." Frank held up a picture of the cop's daughter. "Remember her?"

Igor spat and laughed. "No, should I?"

"You killed her, after you raped her. You would've remembered her. She was a cop's daughter. Which means I have an official sanction on this mission."

The Cossack eyes went wild and he started spouting fast in his native tongue. Frank picked out a few phrases; "double-cross", "whoreson", and maybe "slave".

Frank put the gun to Igor's head. "Talk. Now."

Igor smiled. "You have been fooled. Cop? He was partner. We ran slave ring and snuff film operation. How stupid are you now?"

Frank held down his rage and got in close. "What was the cop's name?"

"Bolton. He is a big hero cop. Had a girl he bought and passed as his daughter. Things he did to her? Could not even imagine. I am a monster and he would make me disgusted. He killed her here; he skinned her alive and made lampshades from her. He is insane."

"What do you mean partners?"

The Cossack shook his head. "No, I tell you nothing else. He will kill me. I am not afraid of much, but I am afraid of him."

"Are you afraid of fire? Because if you don't tell me, I will douse you in gasoline and leave you to burn. A hell of way to die, believe me."

The Cossack eyes were hard to read. But Frank could tell it was working. "Fine. But I get to live, right? I walk out of here…well, so to speak."

"Whatever. Talk or burn."

Igor smiled his blood grin. "We had a warehouse in New Jersey, near the Meadowlands. We would often meet our suppliers, slave traders from the European coast. He is there, I am certain. Look for the warehouse that has armed guards, and you will find him."

Frank said, "Thanks," and shot Igor in the head. It wasn't enough to quiet his rage. He walked out of the building, ready to kill, ready to cross that line he had drawn in the dirt long ago.


	4. Chapter 4

Time for more research.

Frank decided he needed to make sure before he killed Bolton. Igor could have been lying.

But Frank had a feeling he wasn't. So, he hit the streets with a vengeance. First stop was an old friend of his, a computer guy who had always played it straight with him. He had answers, and they all seemed to back up the Cossack's story.

Bolton was a man of mystery. A hero cop, sure; but he also led a secret life. Secret deals with a white slave ring out of Europe. The Feds suspected him, but they had absolutely no proof. Even when his second-in-command got popped, the mook refused to give Bolton up. In fact, everyone was terrified of Bolton.

Stories were plentiful. One had him nailing the feet of of thug to the floor and then beating him with a aluminum bat until he was exhausted. Another had him taking a circular saw to a rival, taking his arms and legs off, and keeping the guy alive and concious as he did it.

Bolton was scary.

Frank was scarier.

Frank didn't care that he was a cop; he didn't care if he was a medal of valor medal recipient. All Frank cared about was one thing. Punishment.

Frank stopped by his pad. He made a phone call. He replaced the M-60 and picked up some more grenades; no teargas this time. He grabbed extra ammo, and weighed the pros and cons of the flamethrower. The pros won. Fire was the final cleanser.

It was around 3 A.M. when he got to the Meadowlands. The warehouse was lit and open for business. A quick look with the binoculars showed three guards at the entrance, two at the rear. God knows how many around the perimeter.

Frank saw a truck pull up. He focused in on it. It stopped at the gate, and one of the guards talked to the driver, as the others opened the cargo. He saw a woman forced out. The guards were laughing, groping her, making crude gestures. The rage made everything red. The other guard saw this, yelled and they threw the woman back in the cargo hold. The truck was allowed to pass into the warehouse.

Tricky. Frank had to be careful. There were innocents inside. He chewed it over. The distraction would have to be huge. He picked up the grenade launcher and smiled.

Arcing lobs of death, over the warehouse, into the gate's perimeter. The explosions lit up the Jersey sky. As expected, they ran out of the warehouse, and into the M-60' s line of fire.

Blood was thick in the air. Frank ran into the warehouse, a strange sense of deja-vu consuming him. The same crap, just a different place. Rows of cages lined the warehouse walls. Frank was reminded of a kennel, except there were women in these cages, not animals. The crying and shrieking was driving him insane.

He screamed Bolton's name. He killed several soldiers without thinking, the gun simply an extension of his soul and anger. The shrieking grew in his mind; it sounded like his wife and children. Cordite haze and blood stench attacked his senses. He shook it off and walked to the cages.

The women were scared. They recoiled from him and his gun. He cooed. "It's okay. I'm here to rescue you."

A quick kick with the boot and the first few were free. They moved like cautious animals; who knew how long they had been in captivity?

He heard the shot before he felt the pain. He heard the shrieking of the women as he fell, his gun clattering out of his reach. A clean shot in the shoulder, exactly where he had no armor. He rolled over and reached for his sidearm. He got it out of his holster, and another shot to shoulder killed his arm. The 9 milli went flying. The pain was there, and so was the rage. The rage of being so goddam careless.

Bolton walked over and smiled. "I heard you calling me. Here I am. What are you doing here?"

"Igor's dead. But he told me an interesting story before he died."

"Ah." Bolton smiled and stepped on Frank's shoulder. "I figured as much. Oh well. Can't blame a guy for trying."

Frank was dizzy with the pain. "Why..." came out as a rasp.

"Why what? Why I started dealing in slaves? Or why I enjoy it? No answer, really, except it pays well and I get to make my own hours. The American dream, finding a job that pays well and flexible." Bolton giggled. "And the benefits..well, all the poon I could want for free."

The rage was back. Frank looked up at Bolton and smiled. "I called the Feds before I left. Told them to come to a certain warehouse in the Meadowlands, find a certain cop knee-deep in a slavery ring."

Bolton shrugged. "So what. 'Hey, guys. Yeah, I got a tip. I showed up, and saw a shoot-out between some slavers and the freakin' Punisher. I rushed in and tried to help. I couldn't believe they took him down.' You see how easy that is? I lie, you die, and I probably get promoted. I wait a few months, then restart the business. No one will question me, and after word gets out in the underworld that I took you out, no one will cross me, either."

Frank grinned. Bolton wasn't watching the ladies he liberated. He didn't see them pick up the 9...

The gunshots were loud in the warehouse. Bolton hit the ground and gurgled, the top of his head gone. Point blank range wadcutters make one hell of a hole. The woman was crying and screaming. She dropped the gun and turned to Frank and said one word. "Help."

The women were holding him up. They all watched as the warehoused burned. The flames swirled up with the smoke in the night sky. The women were soft and hard, and they would have a long road ahead. Frank Castle led them into the night, sirens in the distance.


End file.
